


pink like blush

by AllTheCosmos



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fill, boring fluff, flufffffff, really wanted to work in 'paint with all the colors of the wind' but couldn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23739034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheCosmos/pseuds/AllTheCosmos
Summary: steve makes billy take a cosmo quiz, sort of.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	pink like blush

“Okay.” Steve happily ticks off a box, slides his finger down the glossy page, “Next question.”

Billy rolls his eyes from his spot on the counter, and throws one of the grapes from his bowl right at Steve’s head. 

He gets a mildly irritated look in return and a little, totally unfair, pouty face when Steve points his pen at him and says, “You said you would do this. And there’s only like,” Steve leans back over the magazine, scans, flips a page, flips _another_ fucking page, “like, I don’t know, ten questions left.” 

Billy sighs, loud through his nose. Puts as much growl behind it as he can. They’ve been at this for at least twenty minutes. Steve laughs, way too fucking amused at being the source of Billy’s frustration. And only shakes his head, focusing back on the magazine. 

“Alright, the next one is super important. So answer honestly.” 

“Oh you want me to answer this one honestly? Because all my other answers were bullshit, huh?

“Yes. _Honestly_. So fucking listen, alright?”

“Fine, alright. Ask your dumb question.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Are you fucking kidding me you -”

“Is it red, orange, green, blue, or black?” 

And Billy’s done, he is. There’s a limit on dumb shit he’ll put up with and he hit that three questions ago. He’s not even sure where Steve got the fucking magazine, let alone while he feels the sudden desire to torture Billy in this fashion. 

But Steve’s leveling this glare at him when he doesn’t immediately respond with his favorite color. Like Steve truly thinks it will amount to something, like he couldn’t be more serious about the science behind it. Like he’s absolutely not fucking around with this Cosmo quiz and that glare tells Billy that he should think twice before answering. 

Lest he be struck down by the Cosmo gods. Or worse. Fall into Steve Harrington’s disappointment. 

And it’s too early in the morning for that. 

So. 

Billy sits back. And thinks _honestly_ about his favorite colors. 

^

_Red?_

Red. Red like scraped knuckles and chapped lips. Red like the red of crushed McDonald’s wrappers, french fries shared at the quarry, easy like a peace offering when it’s this dark out and the rest of Hawkins is asleep. Red like red brake lights when Steve tells him to _slow down_. 

Red like the factory red of Billy’s house phone, an ugly sort of burnt crimson that turns almost deep burgundy at night. The old plastic one that’s mounted to the wall in the trailer’s small kitchen. It only ever rings for two people. And if it’s after midnight, it’s safe to say it’s usually just one person. 

And Billy _loves_ talking on the phone. Always has. Loves the performance of it, the posting up against the wall, the twirling of the cord around his fingers, the way he can pause all dramatic, or drop his voice low, or whisper right into the receiver. 

If it’s after midnight though, he’s usually doing none of those things. If it’s after midnight and Steve’s calling, Billy’s stretching that cord to its absolute limit so he can sit comfortably on his couch. 

At this point, he doesn’t even really ask anymore. Just starts reading. Whatever book is closest to him. It doesn’t matter. Usually it’s whatever Billy’s reading for class. Sometimes the TV guide. And once, memorably, Billy read from a sexual health pamphlet Hopper shoved at him. Steve didn’t even make it to the third panel before dissolving into those unattractive snorts of wild laughter. 

It doesn’t matter, though. The content, doesn’t matter. A fact that makes Billy trip and stumble over common words when he thinks too much about it. Because it doesn’t matter. Steve is just calling to listen. To listen to him. 

And there’s something heavy, burns hot like the red of an ember, that settles when Steve sleepily admitted that Billy has a _calming_ voice. It was the first time someone has ever accused him of something like that. The first time Billy wanted to _be_ something like that. 

So he reads. Plastic red phone tucked under his chin. Waits until Steve interrupts, long minutes later, to either offer up the reason why he’s actually calling or to mumble some dumb shit he says when he’s about to fall asleep. It really only takes a couple of pages to knock Steve out cold. Deep, even breathing translates over the line. 

Billy shakes his head. Amazed every time. And stands to hang up the phone. 

^

_Orange?_

Orange. Orange like the buzzing glow of hazy street lamps. The ones that are spaced farther and farther apart as you drive out of town. Orange like Hopper’s rusty truck he makes Billy take when he’s going out this far into the woods. 

Orange like the shag carpeting in the Byer’s living room where Billy’s sprawled out, solidly drunk, and where Jonathon jokingly asked him _hey asshole, is there anything you don’t hate about Hawkins?_ Billy remembers the stunned silence that followed when he slurred out how it’s nice that the seasons change here. How it’s really only ever one season in southern California and how autumn is pretty fucking rad, you know? And fuck you if you don’t think the leaves changing colors isn’t some good shit. He remembers Nancy’s wide eyes, Jon’s raised eyebrows, Steve’s literal dropped jaw in the face of Billy sharing something genuine. 

That’s what led to the next morning. Steve showing up way too goddamn early. Too goddam excited. Too loud as he begged Billy to get Hopper’s truck. Too much barely restrained energy as he gleefully gave directions, practically sitting on his hands the whole way up to the state park. 

And yeah, okay. Billy stood at the entrance to the trail. Sort of dazed. ‘Cause yeah, he gets it. 

Orange like autumn. Like the bright vivid reds and the fresh golden oranges and soft warm yellows that adorned every tree, trees that stretched out before him for _miles_. Steve packed a bowl before they set off on the trail. The orange flame of Steve’s zippo against worn, rounded glass made Billy laugh. Like it knew it was mimicking the colors of the trees, aspiring. 

Steve mistook Billy’s laughing for uncertainty, and passed the bowl over with a _trust me_ kind of look that Billy just abhorred. Never one to turn it down, however, Billy smoked up and followed Steve on the long, winding trail. And more or less let himself float amongst the trees. Hyper aware of Steve’s gaze, Billy tried his best to make it seem like he wasn’t as into this as he really was. But that’s sort of difficult when you’re high and all you want to do is stare at the pretty leaves. 

At least he wasn’t being as embarrassing as Steve. Because Steve was showing off everything like he invented autumn himself. Smiling wide and goofy at everything Billy looked out, eagerly pointing out names for trees that sailed over Billy’s head, excitingly waiting for Billy’s responses. 

Steve shoved so many fucking leaves into his backpack that day and Billy still finds them pressed into the pages of his books. 

^

_Green?_

Green. Green like the grass stains Billy still can’t get out his jeans. Green like the fucking hill that he fucking sat on that overlooked a fucking baseball field. Green like the color of his face when he thinks about how he ended up here, stomach in knots, nauseated at having to listen to the nerds run wild around him, disgusted with himself that he’s now apparently the guy who comes to watch Steve’s games. 

Green like the deep olive green of Steve’s _Hawkins Baseball_ hoodie. The one that has HARRINGTON stretched across the shoulders. The one with the thumb holes Billy cut into the cuffs. 

The same deep olive green of Steve’s gear bag, the one that he threw into Billy’s car. Not even asking if Billy could drive him home. Green like every light Billy thankfully hit on the ride back, giving him more time to focus on yelling at Steve because _you can’t fucking dive head first you complete dumbass, isn’t that the first thing they teach you or are you just that bad at baseball?_ Green like that sick, queasy feeling that comes back when Billy sees the cut under Steve’s eye swell up. A cleat to the face. Curses viciously about not getting blood on the upholstery. 

Green like the bag of frozen peas Billy digs out from the back of Steve’s fridge. Hands quick and fast, practiced, as he cleans up the blood and disinfects. Gentle as he presses the cold bag against Steve’s heated skin, apologizing as he molds it over the cheekbone, watching Steve’s face twist up briefly in pain. Promising it will feel better when the area goes numb. 

Not at all prepared when Steve reaches up. Hand over Billy’s own, holding onto the fucking frozen peas. And that’s not fair because Steve has him pinned, knows it, if his stupid smug look is anything to go, keeps him there. Billy makes the mistake of looking down into that dumb fucking smile. Feels fingers curl into the deep olive green of the hem of the sweatshirt. 

_Thanks for coming to my game._ Steve says, far too happy and far too quiet and far too pleased for someone with a swollen face.

^

_Blue?_

Blue. Easy, blue like the Camaro. The specific Camaro blue that feels like home. Is home. Blue like the pale blue candle that El bought for him at the farmer’s market, the one that said it smelled like _ocean breeze_ , the one that sits on his deck because maybe that can be home too. Blue like the stillness of the lake, the lake that sometimes smells like ocean breeze now. Blue like the blue that hangs in the air when it’s cold enough to see your breath, blue when you keep talking anyway. 

Blue like the electric blue of those gross sour gummy worms Steve’s addicted to. An addiction made worse by a stint at an ice-cream shop and a job that tries to upsell candy with every purchase. 

Blue like the neon lights of the movie theater. The ones that flashed as he stood outside. Unsure how he ended up here, with Hopper and Joyce and the nerd herd and Steve and - he was definitely conned. That’s clear. Hopper said drop El off at the theatre. He’s sure. Not _stay and watch the fucking Goonies with us_. At least Hopper insisted on paying for everyone. And promptly pulled Billy inside by his jacket. 

It was loud inside, chaotic. Made worse by the kids immediately running off in the direction of their theatre to find the best seats, excitedly dragging Steve along with him. At the same time Hopper and Joyce asked for concession stand orders, getting overlapping shouts of popcorns and sodas thrown back at them. And Billy got stuck in the middle, wondering if he should help Hop carry back all that shit or if he’s supposed to help with crowd control when Steve took two quick steps towards him. Grabbed his elbow. 

_I’ll save you a seat. Grab me some gummy worms, okay?_ And with that Steve pressed a quick kiss against his cheek, like it was normal, like it was something they did all the time, like it was just a reflex before they parted, no big deal, like Steve didn’t just kiss him in front of Hopper and Joyce and the nerds and half of Hawkins. But the dumbass just turned away, getting swallowed up back by the kids who were only annoyed by the delay. And stumbled off. 

When Billy found them in the theatre, he made a pointed effort to ignore Steve and indulgently made his way over to El. He stealthily handed over the boxes of candy he got for her too, the ones he had to hide from Hop who complained she already eats too much sugar, doesn’t need more. It was worth it when El smiled back up at him, fist bumped him like he taught her. But even El ultimately pushed him back towards the end of the row, where Steve saved a spot for him. 

Billy sat down and held out for as long as he could. Finally produced the bag of electric blue and candied pink sour gummy worms. And tried to remind himself why it was a bad idea to punch a middleschooler out in public when the nerds had the balls to _ooooohhhoooohh_ and make kissy faces at him. Hopper’s resounding bark of deep laughter was almost enough to send him over the edge. 

^

_Black?_

Black. Black like cigarette ash and dark corners and words he highlights in his textbooks. Bolded, underlined. Black like the words you really fucking mean, bolded and underlined. Black that softens, that fades, that warms right down a soft pink, like blush that spreads high across cheekbones, when you actually _say_ what you mean. 

Black like the interior of his car when he parks and turns the lights off. Black like how fucking black the sky can get way out here in Hawkins. Guess when you’re in the middle of the nowhere, there’s not much else stopping you from staring into the void. 

Black like the matte black of Billy’s keychain. The one he pauses to run a thumb over, the smooth surface familiar under his touch as he fidgets with his keys. He’s never been good at waiting. 

The keychain’s dumb, that’s the thing. Just a small bit of cheap plastic. With white text stamped across it. Steve gave it to him after finding it at some random store during a weekend trip with Robin to the city. Told him how he laughed so hard in the aisle when he saw it that he knew he had to buy it immediately. But it’s dumb and it’s stupid and Billy _hates_ it. Outright refused the first time Steve prodded him to put it on his keyring. Which only made Steve laugh harder. 

_Worst driver. But cute._

How offensive, you know? Call him an asshole. Call him a douchebag. Call him a monster, a loudmouth instigator, call him a lazy piece of shit stoner, _fuck_ , call him the devil incarnate. Whatever. That’s fine. But do not - do fucking not - call him a bad driver. Those are fighting words. 

Because, honestly, he’s a great fucking driver. It’s like one of the main components of his character. Chain smoker, skull crusher, and a great fucking driver. He tells Steve this. _You’re reckless and drive way too fast for these small town streets._ And like yeah sure, but that doesn’t make him a bad driver. Plus he never pulls that shit when he has passengers. _Yeah, but it’s the times when you don’t have passengers that I’m concerned about, dumbass._

Black like the screen when something short circuits. Like it’s too much to process and it just cracks, fizzles, and cuts to black. Black like Billy’s mind when he tries to understand why Steve would be concerned about his driving if no one else is in the car with him, until it short circuits. Cuts to black. 

_A reminder to get home safe then_ , Steve conceded and wouldn’t leave Billy alone until he fastened the cheap plastic matte black keychain to the rest of his keys. Billy watched it clank against his trailer keys he somehow possessed, watch it knock into the Camaro keys he fought for, settle against his little Scorpions charm he’s had forever. 

Billy’s already re-enforced the clasp ring of the keychain so it doesn’t dare fall off. 

And. Black like a quiet night, like a darkened trailer because nobody really needs the lights anymore, black like a room you can navigate blindfolded, easy. Black like the space you crawl into when you pull back the covers. 

Black like when you realize you have someone waiting for you to get home safe. 

^

“So I guess I don’t know, you know?” Billy scratches at his stubble, “Like they’re all my favorite colors?”

“Billy,” 

“Yeah, I know. You’re right,” Billy nods seriously like he doesn’t notice the way Steve looks like he’s about to combust, bites back a smile, “I need to pick one for the quiz.”

“Fuck the quiz.” 

“You said you wanted to finish it, been bugging me all morning.” Billy laughs when Steve tosses the magazine to the floor and moves to stand between Billy’s legs. Hooks big hands behind Billy’s knees and yanks him right to the edge of the counter. 

“I don’t need to know anymore.” Steve admits, “Think I’ve figured it out.” 

And Billy has to put his bowl of grapes down to press his fingers to the pink blush high across Steve’s cheekbones.

**Author's Note:**

> for mi esposo (;
> 
> anyway, i'm dontfuckingstartwithme on tumblr


End file.
